Bobby Dean
Everyone talks about how grand the MGM is. The flashy lights, the beautiful women, the amazing stage shows, now the excellent wrestling. But no one really takes the time to appreciate just how wonderful their public bathrooms are.
They’re surprisingly clean! The toilet seats aren’t dripping in piss, their toilet paper is thick triple ply, the handicap rails are freshly polished. And there isn’t an abundance of shit wafting through the air.
You may have heard the phrase clean enough to eat off of, well let me tell you, there is one man currently in PRIME who will gladly put that to the test!
The door of the men’s room bursts open as a familiar face amongst the halls of SHOOT casually strolls on in, whistling “Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks as he walks up to the urinal reserved for either children or dwarves.
There is a familiar sound in the air, as the man at the urinal goes about his business. With the sound of urine hitting porcelain begins to permeate the air, there is another sound coming from the stalls to the man’s right.
The familiar sound is that of a man eating noodles?
*SLUUUUURP*
“Welcome one and all to the debut edition of Shit Talk,” a cheery but muffled voice calls out from the nearby handicap stall, as if he were speaking with a mouthful, causing the man at the urinal to look around in wonder. “I’m your host, “Beautiful” Bobby Dean!”
The pressing of a button can be heard, followed by the echoing sounds of a rousing round of applause. The applause ends as suddenly as it began.
“I’m joined today by a special guest.” Bobby Dean says, “Please insert your name here, guest.”
“Uhm, Chadwick Kyle,” the man asks more than answers, as if he were unsure what the right answer would be.
“Welcome to the show Cha…” the host pauses as if a thought has just been processed through his slow mind. “Wait. Chadwick Kyle? THE Chadwick Kyle?”
The smile on Chad’s face erupts, as there is nothing in the world he enjoys more, than when someone recognizes him. Sure, being recognized while taking a leak isn’t the most opportune time, but hey, he’d take it!
“Yeah!” Chadwick calls out, shaking twice before reaching up and hitting the arm of the flusher.
“Shit!” Bobby says, causing Chad to pause. “I can’t interview you!”
“What? Why not? The Chad loves to be interviewed!” Kyle answers in a huff while angrily tucking himself back in and zipping himself up.
There is a sudden silence from the third stall from the left, as if the man inside were to think if he were quiet long enough Chadwick might think this were all a dream? But the man in the stall underestimates the perseverance of Chadwick Kyle, as Kyle marches over to stand before the locked door.
“Why can’t you interview The Chad?” Kyle asks for the fourth time. “The Chad has a voice that the people need to hear!”
A mighty sigh erupts from behind the closed door, before a meek voice follows with, “LT has a Zero Chadwick Policy throughout PRIME. I once heard that she kicked a kid out from ReVival #1 because his name was Bradwick Lyle…”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Chadwick says while crossing his arms. “That’s the dumbest thing The Chad has ever heard.”
Hang on, I’m sure I can do better…
After a few more minutes of haranguing Chadwick Kyle storms out of the bathroom, trying to slam the door behind him, but due to the self closing door hinge mechanism at the top, the door slows to a crawl. Chad rips the door open and tries to slam it shut another two times before giving up, leaving our host alone in his stall, to await his next guest.
The sound of slurping noodles commences once again.
——————————
Moments have passed, toilets have flushed, noodles have been consumed.
The door the men’s room bursts open and a man in a disheveled three piece suit storms in. The man rushes past the urinals and practically runs towards the stalls, frantically trying to both open and close the door as quickly as he can.
Two seconds later it sounds as if a shotgun has gone off.
“Oh thank God I made it!” the voice of pure relief calls out. If you’re an adult over 30 and have ever come close to shitting your pants, you know what he’s talking about! Or, if you’re an adult over 30 and didn’t quite hold out… You too, know what he’s talking about.
“Welcome one and all,” the voice of Bobby Dean calls out, causing his newly arrived neighbor to jump, as a crappy iPhone hits the tiled floor.
“Crap!” the voice calls out with mild irritation, a voice Bobby Dean is very familiar with.
“Welcome to the inaugural episode of Shit Talk, I am your host, “Beautiful” Bobby Dean!” the button presses once more, but instead of applause a sound of boos and jeering emit throughout the bathroom.
“YOU SUCK!” “YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT!” “BOOOOOOOO!”
The sound is cut off and a sheepish voice calls out, “Crud, I forgot to rewind the tape. Anyway, I’m here today in the wonderful men’s room of the MGM Grand, with my special guest of the day, please insert name here.”
“Uhm. Bobby?” the voice calls out.
“Oh wow! Your name is Bobby too!?” Bobby Dean calls out happily, surprised that there could be another Bobby in all of the unlikeliest of places.
“No, Bobby, it’s Melvin.” the voice answers unhappily, yet another tone of voice Bobby is very familiar with. “Melvin Beauregard. Official MGM Liaison to PRIME.”
“Oh!” Bobby cannot hide the disappointment from his voice as he’s informed that he’s not talking to a fellow Bobby-ian. “Well, you’ll do I suppose.”
“Do?” Melvin asks with suspicion heavy in his voice. “Do for what? What exactly are we doing here?”
“You’re being interviewed, of course.” Bobby answers as if it were obvious. “Question one, if Dusk was a train leaving The Cincinnati Union Terminal in Ohio at 15 miles per house, and I was a train leaving the Amtrak Station out of the greatest city of the US of A, Houston, at 1,000 miles per house who will win this weekend’s ReVival?”
“That, that question, it doesn’t even make sense…” Melvin stammers out, completely at a loss as to what is going on. “Listen, why are you bothering people in the bathroom?”
“Duh,” Bobby retorts, “You told me to!”
“I did no such thing!” Melvin argues immediately, but before he can finish Bobby rolls right over him. “You sent everyone that memo, something about a prompt. I didn’t know what a prompt was, but Jiles said that basically I have to go out and whore myself in the name of PRIME and or the MGM. And well, I thought, what is more PRIME than a good ole fashion #2? And what better place than the MGM restroom?”
There is an awkward silence as Melvin tries to wrap his head around what is known as “Bobby logic.” In a weird way it sort of makes sense, like if you were to tilt your head to the side and squint your eyes kind of way. But Melvin, and just about every other sane person on the planet, refuse to connect the dots.
“THIS, this is not promoting PRIME! Harassing people while they’re handling their business will not help PRIME or the MGM Grand!” the suit informs Bobby, causing him to sigh.
“Buuuuut Dusk did a stupid interview, why can’t I?” Bobby asks like he were a 9 year old on the verge of a temper tantrum, he even stamps his foot for emphasis. “I was going to talk about kids, and food, and sex. Oh and wrestling, and hotels. You know, make it pertinent!”
“Honestly, I don’t care what you do, so long as you don’t do it in the men’s room!” Melvin growls out.
“Well, I tried hosting this in the women’s restroom first but LT was the first person to come in and well, she left bruises.” Bobby sheepishly informs Melvin, to which a palm hitting a forehead could be heard, followed by a flushing of the toilet. The door opens and an irate Melvin Beauregard storms out.
“Thanks for tuning in folks,” Bobby calls out cheerily once more. “I promise on our next episode we’ll have much more exciting guests! You know, guests who will actually participate in the interview! I was so looking forward to asking Melvin what his favorite ice cream was, or how he liked his Twinkies? Deep fried, or dipped in chocolate?
“Anyway, thanks again, until next time I’m “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, coming to you from the 3rd Stall from the Left!” Bobby signs off as Melvin furiously dries his hands with a paper towel on his way out the door.
——————————
It has been a long and tiring day.
I slowly make my way down the hallway of the hotel, dragging behind a large cardboard frame painted bright red. Much like one would see for a “kissing booth” but instead the words “PRIME MUSTASHche RIDES” are hand painted in an arch along the top in white. It does not look well made as the cardboard itself appears to be on its last legs.
Entering the suite reserved for the Bandits I’m not surprised to see Cancer Jiles lounging on his blue sofa. His arms crossed behind his head, his T-Shades on, his feet crossed at the ankle, with one of them rocking back and forth to some beat in his head. I cannot tell if he is watching me as I stomp across the room, throwing the cardboard frame onto the floor. Or if he’s watching as I chuck the fake glasses with an attached mustache across the room.
“Rough day?” Cancer Jiles asks rhetorically.
“How am I supposed to promote PRIME?” I ask as I plop down onto the other, not as comfortable, sofa. “They kick me out when I offer Mustache Rides. They ask me to leave when I offer a full body lotion service down at the pool. I even tried the whole “Man of the Street” ambush interview thingy and ended up getting maced twice, and kicked in the nuts once!
“I give up!” I exclaim, throwing myself further to the side, now lying along the sofa with my feet hanging off the edge, with an arm draped over my face. Cancer doesn’t say a word.
After some time I begin to mutter to myself, “Dusk… Duuuuusk… Dussssssk…”
“What are you doing?” the COOLympian can’t help himself, as he asks from across the room.
“Don’t you think Dusk would be a great call name for a fighter pilot?” I ask, as I continue to play with the name. “Like Iceman, or Goose. Dusk. Dumb for a wrestling name, but great for a pilot, don’tcha think?”
After a few seconds, I ask, “What would your call name be? You know, if you were a pilot?”
“COOL.” Cancer says casually.
“Yeah, I see you more as ALF.” I say, completely ignoring his choice. “Annoying Little Fuck.”
“COOL.” Cancer repeats with a little more conviction.
“I think I’d be Beauty. Or Meat. Or Double Ds.” I answer as if he asked. “I wonder what Dooze would be.”
“Ghost.” the disembodied voice of Doozer calls out, causing Cancer and I to both jerk upright, looking around the room for the source.
There, across the room, tucked away in a corner is a cardboard cutout of Doozer, with a Google Echo Dot duct taped to its face. Cancer looks at me, his eye brows peaking above his shades, “Has he been there the whole time?”
“I didn’t even see him!” I say in wonder, both of us looking back to the CBDooze, as he reiterates with a spooky voice, “Ghost.”
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Ever since I found out that I would be facing you, Dusk, I’ve been training like you wouldn’t believe! When most people say that, it’s just hyperbole, but when I say it it should mean something, because, as some of you may know, I hate training! It’s too much work, and let’s face it, I’m not the most motivated person you’ll ever come across.
I’ve never been big on homework, but so far I’ve watched From Dusk till Dawn 8 times. From Dusk till Dawn 2 twice. Half of From Dusk till Dawn 3. Heck, I even binge watched the From Dusk till Dawn Series on Netflix during one of my afternoon naps. Then there was Gone by Dawn 2: Dead by Dusk. Lastly, I watched Dusk one evening, only because I thought it might have been autobiographical, but I’m not so sure now after seeing *Spoiler Alert* you killed your wife.
I’ve got a bit of a conundrum here, Dusker.
On one hand I really want to win.
Why? Because I’ve never made it past the opening round in a tourney before. Plus, with Doozer and Jiles losing their opening round matches, I really want to be the one that gets to rub their noses in it, when I’m the one Bandit that gets further than them. Talk about bragging rights!
Yes, I know, Jiles hasn’t lost. Yet…
Then, on the other hand, if you win, Dusk, I’m looking at an 8 week long vacation! Can you imagine? 8 weeks of nothing to do!? No wrestling. No promoting. No segments. Just mai tais at the pool! Fried Twinkies in bed, with the adult channels unscrambled. Or I can roll around in my super small nut huggers with other sweaty men… Hmmm, options, options.
A part of me feels like this is the Geriatric Make a Wish, and I’m about to make all your dreams come true bud!
I guess the one question I have to ask myself is, what do I want more? To be the Best Bandit? Or the Laziest?